


never knew daylight (could be so violent)

by sirius_bucky_solo



Series: all the warm comforts of home [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Dragon Sickness, Durincest, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Pre-Slash, Thorin is a fool, aka lets have a crack at fixing that MESS THANKS JACKSON, bagginshield, but we forgive him bc hes pretty, only happy endings here folks, so late bc its taken me 4 years to be ready to think about it for extended period of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 10:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21354442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius_bucky_solo/pseuds/sirius_bucky_solo
Summary: Opting to put off their inevitable, uncomfortable conversation for a time when Thorin had healed - at least somewhat - was an easy choice for Bilbo. Now was a time for quiet reassurance; he needed to know, deep within his heart, that Thorin was not going to die. It gave the hobbit hope too, that Thorin might one day forgive him. That maybe they could forgive each other.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Fíli, Bilbo Baggins & Fíli & Kíli, Bilbo Baggins & Kíli, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: all the warm comforts of home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539463
Comments: 16
Kudos: 153





	never knew daylight (could be so violent)

**Author's Note:**

> anyone apart from me (and my ever-wonderful beta Crying101) still reading hobbit fic?  
hope so.
> 
> title taken from Florence + the Machine's No Light, No Light which is heartbreakingly perfect for this fandom.

By the time Bilbo managed to reach the hastily-erected infirmary tents, night had fallen. The battlefield was now a wasteland; still, silent, white snow tainted with blood and dirt. Though the fighting had long since ceased, the stench of death hung heavy in the air, making the hobbit’s lungs struggle for every breath. Yavanna - he couldn’t imagine how he could possibly return to the idyllic green hills of the Shire after this.

Wearily, Bilbo lifted his head to scan the crowds of Men, Dwarves, and Elves alike, searching for a familiar face. By the royal tent, he could see Thranduil with Bard - presumably discussing how best to move forward from the events now being referred to as the ‘Battle of the Five Armies’. How the two of them were even upright after the day’s events, Bilbo couldn’t fathom. Speaking of Kings who weren’t upright - he still hadn’t found Thorin.

After defeating Azog upon Ravenhill, the dwarf king had collapsed in exhaustion, hair fanned out beneath him on the unforgiving ice. Bilbo had raced to his side, the idea of losing Thorin forever without even acknowledging the tension between them dragging burning tears up his throat. He’d tried to stifle them, though he couldn’t stop his desperate sobs as the dwarf slipped into unconsciousness. 

Finally, the eagles had arrived. Screeching battle cries heralded the turning tide of the carnage, swooping and gliding as they decimated the remaining ranks of Orcs, talons and beaks primed for destruction. Bilbo had screamed until his voice cracked, frantically waving one over to take his king to the healers, hoping against hope that they would be able to save him. 

The eagle clasped Thorin gently in its claws, tilting its head at Bilbo as if to ask whether he wanted a lift too. Sobs having faded into shuddering hiccoughs, the hobbit waved it away, rasping, “he needs medical attention, quickly. Please.” Bobbing its head, the eagle spread its wings and flew towards the mountain, where survivors had been gathering to do all they could for the countless wounded.

Exhaling for what felt like the first time in days, Bilbo scrubbed both hands furiously over his gritty eyelids and up into his hair, tugging on it furiously. It took him a few moments of blinking away his tears to figure out that the heartbroken whimpers echoing over the ice were coming out of his throat. He didn’t even know if Fíli and Kíli had survived. Or any of the others.

***** 

“Bofur! Oh, thank Eru, you’re alright!” Bilbo hurried over, a new wave of energy coming from some hidden reserve at the sight of his dear friend still standing - even wearing his ridiculous hat. 

“Bilbo! Lad, you’re alive. We feared the worst, when Thorin was brought back alone…”

The hobbit felt his heart rise into his throat at the offhand mention of the stubborn king, cutting off Bofur with a choked-out “is he..Bofur, is he alive?”

*****

Having been pointed in the right direction by Bofur, Bilbo ducked and weaved around countless sneering Elves and weary Men, until he found himself deeply entrenched in the Dwarven royal camp. Though hastily constructed, the tents were an impressive feat of Dwarvish creation - though the hobbit could hardly appreciate this in his current frantic state.

Making sure to keep far away from the war hogs of the Iron Hills, Bilbo found the blue-silver hanging of the tent Bofur had described, and for a moment he could scarcely breathe. He knew Thorin was still alive…at least for now. Somehow, the hobbit felt as though seeing the king would make all of what had happened the past few days real again - Bilbo’s weary, dreamlike state allowing him to temporarily escape a terrifying reality in which he could still lose his...his Thorin. 

For a moment, the hobbit wanted nothing more than to put on his ring and disappear, to avoid any more heartache and return to the Shire, or Rivendell. Wanted nothing more than to fade back into the quiet of mundane living, never to see a Dwarf again. And yet, even as his hand flew to his pocket to subconsciously reach for his ring, Bilbo knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Not until Thorin told him to, anyway.

Resolutely squaring his shoulders, the hobbit tried ineffectually to brush the dirt and grime off his coat, then dash the tear tracks off his face. Swallowing, he pushed through the hanging and stepped into the tent. 

Bilbo’s hand flew to his mouth in undisguised horror. _His boys_. Fíli and Kíli lay together on a small cot -unconscious or sleeping, he couldn’t tell. The blond’s bare chest was mottled with bruises and wrapped in bandages, and a deep gash running from his neck to shoulder had been crudely stitched. His hair lay limp beneath him, matted with blood and dirt. Kíli, curled into his brother even at death’s door, had a cut running down the left side of his face and was missing two fingers on his right hand, his broken arm bandaged and held securely in a sling. A wool blanket covered both dwarves from the waist down, shielding Bilbo from seeing the full extent of their injuries.

_They are alive_, he told himself firmly, _they are alive and that is what matters_. Never mind that Fíli drew two blades and the stitching around his shoulder threatened his ability to do that. Never mind that Kíli was now an archer with eight fingers, and a shattered arm. His boys were alive, and they would…they would recover. At least enough to smile again, to laugh and kiss and walk, if not fight.

Crossing to them, Bilbo patted a hand lightly over their hair, tracing their youthful features with his eyes. Relieved beyond relief at the sight of them - mostly - whole, he bent to press kisses to each of their foreheads. A rasping breath from the other side of the room caused him to draw up suddenly, before slowly turning around. 

_Oh, Thorin. _

The king lay propped up, managing to look uncannily regal - even as gravely wounded as he was. His bright blue eyes were glazed slightly with pain, one shadowed by a darkened bruise marring the right side of his face. Bilbo knew that if the blanket covering the dwarf were to be pulled back, he would see Oin’s handiwork holding their king together despite the multitude of injuries he’d sustained in the seemingly unending battle. 

Every time he blinked, Bilbo relived those seconds in which Thorin had fallen after Azog stabbed through the dwarf’s faltering defence and into his stomach. The sound of dwarven armour tearing beneath the orc’s onslaught had echoed through the hobbit’s skull in a terrible, endless screech.

“M-Master Baggins.”

At Thorin’s call, Bilbo was forcibly reminded of just how close he’d come to never hearing his dwarf again, this stubborn, kind, beautiful being the hobbit had accidentally fallen in love with over the course of his unexpected journey. Though the king had suffered more than his fair share of injuries from orcs and goblins, Bilbo still felt his heart rise into his throat each time the seemingly indomitable Thorin was hurt badly enough that he could no longer maintain his icy facade, pain bleeding through.

Abruptly aware that he’d been quiet for too long, Bilbo let out the soft, “oh, _Thorin_,” the words escaping through his cracked lips, teeth digging uncomfortably into a suddenly trembling lower lip. Unable to help himself, the hobbit stumbled over to Thorin’s cot, eyes fixed determinedly on the dwarf’s hands rather than his blue, blue eyes. Hands that were trembling, from pain or from cold, or some combination of both. Strong, calloused hands that had wielded swords and axes as easily as they had braided Fíli and Kíli’s hair, that were now tentatively reaching out. For Bilbo. 

Throughout all Bilbo’s years in the Shire, through Fell Winters, losing his parents, and the unbreachable distance separating him from his peers, the hobbit had never once felt the turbulent conflict of emotions that facing this dwarf king evoked. At once, he wanted to cry, sob his fear and exhaustion out until he could finally accept the danger was over now, and they were safe. He wanted to laugh, brokenly, freely, desperately, in some twisted measure of relief and hopelesssness. He wanted to scream, rage at Thorin for pushing his Company away, for not doing the impossible and resisting the curse on the hoards of Erebor, for making Bilbo feel as though his only option was to betray those he loved, and maybe most of all, for terrifying the hobbit beyond words with the thought that - regardless of how the king felt about him, of losing their fragile friendship - Thorin would die.

Instead, Bilbo reached out and, with hands shaking almost violently, grasped the king’s bloodied, dirty hands and gently linked their fingers. They exhaled in unison.

Opting to put off their inevitable, uncomfortable conversation for a time when Thorin had healed - at least somewhat - was an easy choice for Bilbo. Now was a time for quiet reassurance; he needed to know, deep within his heart, that Thorin was not going to die. It gave the hobbit hope too, that Thorin might one day forgive him. That maybe, they could forgive each other. 

He forced his lips into some semblance of a smile and though it was fragile, it was real.

“You did it, Th- your majesty. Smaug is dead, Erebor is the Dwarves’ once more, and Azog and his forces are defeated. It’s all going to be okay now. I’d...I’d like to see the boys wake, if you don’t mind, and then I’ll be returning home right away.” Ah. Bilbo inwardly cursed his exhaustion for allowing his insecurity to bleed through what was meant to be a comfort to the injured king.

Hesitantly lifting his gaze from their joined hands, Bilbo couldn’t help but be reassured by what he saw in Thorin’s eyes.

“Burglar - Bilbo. I...I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you, failed all my kin. I swore I would not fall to the same sickness as my grandfather, yet I was not strong enough. I swear I will make it up to you, if I’ve not irreparably ruined things between us. Please, I would have you call me Thorin once more.” The dwarf’s voice grew louder as his speech grew more impassioned, though threads of doubt and fear leaked into his conviction. “You never seemed to be one for titles, and I would not have you start now.” He smiled, a hint of humour sparking in his too-intense gaze.

The clumsy attempt at relieving the tension did as much for Bilbo to indicate his Thorin was back - cursed gold be damned - as the heartfelt apology. How he had missed the flashes of boyish, charming dwarf when the king had been swallowed by his family’s corrupt legacy. The hobbit remembered all too keenly the pure fear of and for Thorin at his unsettling coldness after Smaug was killed. He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, either.

_*****_

_“Uncle Bilbo! Wait up!” This was not the first time Thorin’s nephews had used the honorific, and Bilbo blushed. Like he always did. _

_He slowed to a stop, silently wishing that the boys hadn’t found him until he’d made it outside. Dwarves, as the hobbit had come to learn, were perfectly happy indoors and away from the sun. He, however, was not. _

_And given Thorin’s increasingly worrying state of mind, it seemed wiser not to provoke him with frivolous demands - especially since the last time Fíli had asked his uncle to leave the treasure chamber for long enough to eat lunch outside with the others, he’d been scoffed at with such scorn that the usually radiant young dwarf had fallen silent, brows furrowed, blue eyes wet. It had taken the combined efforts of Kíli, cuddling into his lap and pressing soft kisses everywhere he could reach, and Bilbo, combing, petting and rebraiding the golden mane while quietly reminding the older prince that his uncle didn’t mean it, before Fíli smiled again. The boys had come to him far more frequently after that._

_“Yes Kíli? And once again, may I remind you that I am not in fact your uncle?” The hobbit called drily back over his shoulder, before finding the two younger dwarves suddenly on either side of him, linking their elbows with his. His lips curled into a smile, unwillingly. Trust these boys, with their pure, uncomplicated love for each other and for life to make everything seem, if only for a moment, as though it would work out okay._

_“Better to just let him have his way - it’s either that or Auntie Bilbo, trust me.” Fíli winked at the hobbit, before blowing a kiss to his suddenly-beaming younger brother. Bilbo rolled his eyes, “Uncle Bilbo it is, I suppose. You spoil him, Fíli,” turning to Kíli he said, “you’re lucky to have him, you know.” The younger prince ducked his head, blushing. “I know.” He murmured quietly._

_Fíli disentangled from the hobbit, going around to his brother and gently lifting his chin. “I’m so lucky to have you, Kee. I love you, lukhudel.” He leant forward slowly and delicately pressed their lips together, before leaning back and rubbing a thumb affectionately over Kíli’s cheekbone. “Uncle Bilbo,” the blond abruptly turned back to said hobbit, blue eyes troubled, “Kee and I wanted to talk to you...it’s about Uncle Thorin.”_

_Bilbo bit his lip, resisting the urge to scream which surfaced everytime he thought about the stubborn dwarf king and his recent...change in personality. So all the time, basically. He wanted to scream all the time. “Let’s go outside, please boys, and we can talk there.” The two princes, reading his desperation with all the subtlety and grace of the diplomats they were raised as, nodded quietly, Fíli returning to the hobbit’s free side and leading the little group out._

_Outside, the wind was crisp and cutting. The sun was a bleak, white-yellow against the empty sky, and Bilbo shivered. Inhaling lungfuls of fresh air, the hobbit wished futilely that being out of Erebor would cleanse his overwhelmed mind as much as it refreshed his body. He blinked rapidly, horrified that he could feel tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks. Sniffling furiously, he dashed his hand across his eyelids. There would be time to fall apart later. Right now, Bilbo needed to keep it together - if only for the boys._

_“Alright, you two, tell me what’s wrong.” Glancing at each other, the two shared a silent conversation, communicating in that unique way their closeness allowed. The hobbit fought the urge to sneeze, as he found himself with two manes of blond and brown hair tickling his nose - Fíli and Kíli were now wrapped around him. _

_“We’re worried about Uncle.” Kíli blurted out, voice muffled in Bilbo’s coat, as Fíli let go of Bilbo’s coat and - without looking - lightly cuffed his brother’s head. “He’s...he’s not right. I thought he might have been stressed, or tired - maybe sick? Um, when he made me stay behind in Laketown and yelled at Fee about staying with me. That’s not like him, you know. And now, we think he’s gotten worse. He was so awful to Fee the other day, and he - he hasn’t smiled, or, or braided our hair or ... He’s always supported the two of us, even if sometimes he didn’t understand. He wouldn’t just - he wouldn’t -” To the hobbit’s horror, the dwarf trailed off into quiet, stuttering sobs. _

_Sometimes, to Bilbo’s shame, he forgot just how young Thorin’s nephews were. How little of the world they had actually experienced outside of their family, and their relatively sheltered life in the Blue Mountains. When he did remember, the hobbit had to breathe deeply and force the nausea down. They were brave, and reckless, and good, and they’d set out on this journey to help their uncle and have an adventure - to live out a fantastical bedtime story. Not to die, not to lose their uncle to a fate worse than death, or to be rendered shadows in the tomb that was once Erebor._

_“Oh, my dear boy,” Bilbo maneuvered himself and his limpets around until Fíli was sitting, back against the mountain with Kíli cradled in his lap and Bilbo kneeling in front of them. “I’m worried about him too.” At this, the young prince cried harder, but he turned his face from where it was buried in his brother’s collar to face Bilbo. The hobbit tried to smile reassuringly, making eye contact with Fíli. The two held the shared gaze for several moments, fear and sadness and comfort reflected between them._

_Unsure of anything he could say to alleviate the dwarf’s pain, he opted instead to lean forward and - as he had seen other dwarves do to show affection - pressed their foreheads gently together. They breathed, once, twice, in unison. Then, just as slowly, he leant back just enough to press his lips to Kíli’s forehead, the gesture earning a small smile._

_The young prince’s tears had slowed though he was still hiccuping wetly, fingers laced with his brother’s. Bilbo lightly chuffed under his chin, “chin up, lad, we’ve just got to keep going.” How the hobbit wished he could promise them everything would get better, give them something real to hope for - but he had begun to wonder himself if Thorin would ever be able to completely throw off the influence of the gold_

_Lifting his gaze now to the older prince, Bilbo felt his eyebrows crease once more with compassion as he took in Fíli’s clenched jaw and rapid blinking. In a poor attempt at relieving the unbearable sadness that had permeated their little gathering, the hobbit rolled his eyes. “Fine, then, you get one too.” With a free hand, he brushed the dwarf’s golden hair out of his face, then brought their foreheads together lightly. “You’re doing so well, little lionheart.” Fíli had closed his eyes for a heartbeat, exhaled shakily into the space between them._

_***** _

Bilbo glanced over at the sleeping boys, feeling almost overwhelmed by the depth of familial love he felt for them. Fíli had shifted slightly in his sleep, and now his uninjured arm bracketed his brother,hand wrapped loosely around his wrist. Kíli had twisted further into the older dwarf, their proximity soothing both of them. The hobbit couldn’t help but smile, though it was steeped in sadness, and a fear that had yet to dissipate altogether.

Seeing that Thorin had slipped back into sleep, Bilbo gently disentangled their fingers and moved over to a table near the door. Quietly, he filled a bowl with cold, clear water and grabbed a washcloth and small towel before returning to the unconscious king. He lay the towel above the fire in the corner of the tent, then, wetting the cloth, the hobbit began to wash the dirt and blood off the dwarf’s hand clasped between his own. Lightly, he scrubbed underneath nails and over knuckles, until Thorin’s hands were clean - the history of the battle swirling in a bowl of dirty water ready to be thrown away. 

Bilbo ducked out of the tent and emptied the bowl, then returned to the fire and grabbed the towel - now warm and fluffy. Kneeling by the dwarf’s side, he dried their hands with soft presses and brief touches. He had not been with Thorin when he was needed, but he could do this.

**Author's Note:**

> yes! this is part of a series! I would like to write more (and will be even more likely to when gifted with your kudos and comments ;) )
> 
> thank you for reading <3


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